little things
by gustin puckerman
Summary: He thinks she looks better in white. Andrew's short tale. one-shot.


**little things, because i can't get enough of this couple. the possibilities are endless and bugging my head. enjoy**.

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andrew&allison

.

(the eyeliner)

He remembers her eyeliner painting over her pale skin around her eyes - making them bigger, sharper. And yeah, somewhat clearer. He remembers seeing them in Biology. She keeps to herself mostly, sketching out in the thick text book, completely ignoring whatever the teacher might try to say. He steals glances - because that's the only thing he could do, keep doing it seems. He thinks she notices, because their eyes meet (just for a few fleeting seconds) when she lifts her chin up and gazes to the front.

Her eyes are so bright.

Which is weird, under those dark demeanor she puts herself in - she looks so contrast. He thinks she looks better in white. But black is okay. He could work with black - it's what he first saw her in, fell in love with. And honestly? He doesn't need to change that. He taps his pen.

He never actually calls back.

(the lips)

He likes to think the first thing he notices about her besides from the fact of her overall existence is her very much thin, thin lips. It's not really thin, no. It's just - when she smiles, Gosh_, those lips_. He likes that. He likes her smile very much. He honestly think he never learn of someone's lips so much from just observing, but there you go. He notices. He documents it through his head and keeps the file secure back at his mind. He tries not to get distract by the way_ it feels_.

Sometimes he purposely puts his finger on his lips to give pressure - to play the same scene of collisions between his own lips and hers on that Saturday evening. It never felt the same. He tries kissing other girls - there are similarities: lips against lips, tongue with tongue - but never ... just _that_, you know? Never truly hers.

But yeah, when she smiles - he likes it.

(the hands)

They never actually hold hands. In fact, after Saturday, they never really talk. Bender and Claire made the impossible happen: they dated. But only for like, three months before they parted ways. Bender was a senior, he'd be out of the school soon enough anyway. Brian makes sure to stay in good term with everybody else; sometimes he tutors Bender, lend an ear to Claire, experiments with Allison and manage a conversation or two with him, which was, cool. He's fine with it.

But anyway, he wonders about Allison's hands sometimes. They never actually hold hands - but they touched. He looked at her clean fingernails, despite her whole sorta messy appearance, that were clean-cut and paint-free and wonders how it would feel to just press her palm against his. Takes it after a tired day, just to keep her close to him.

But he never dares himself to reach out and just try.

Too much of a coward, too spoiled and beaten into this shape of a man he became. And so every time he watches her clean hand free by her side, he keeps quiet and sinks with the crowd. He ignores his stomach lurches over and the voice that keeps saying; to go for it.

(the papers)

He likes the strips of paper she always leave on her trails. It's always crumbled and almost always have doodles on it. He's sure this is an act of randomness because she does it like, all the time, even before they met - but he has this gut feeling now that somehow it's meant for him. He isn't too confirm of the idea though. But he ponders over it. Either way, he secretly keeps it, her papers. He calls it paper crumbs.

Some he keeps, like the doodles of something that catches his attention - a dog, the teacher, the sign over the board. Some he has to throw away. He wonders if she ever track back her paper crumbs to see it's gone, that some of the papers lay in his varsity jacket's pocket for safe-keeping. If she does know it's him, she doesn't acknowledge. He kind of hopes she does.

But no matter.

As long as she's leaving tracks, he thinks he's okay.

(the red nose)

He doesn't like it when after third period, she'll have her nose red. A red nose mean she went to the Counselor's office, and she does that, at third period nearly everyday. He knows she has problems - like lying problems - and he's no expert to comment on what course for her to take, but he has a feeling she doesn't like the Counselor's office so much. Or any confinement space that's she's in for her to talk about _why is she the way she is_. He thinks he wouldn't like it either if he were in her place.

She never cry though, he notices. She'd clenches until her knuckles turn white or writes until it tear the paper, but she never sheds a single tear. Don't ask him how he knows - he just ... he can see, okay?! But yeah, she never cry. But she rubs her nose a lot when she doesn't want to talk about something. This he notices. And it always leave her nose red afterwards. And she kinda rubs her nose a lot in the Counselor's office.

He hates seeing her sad.

He wishes he could blow it all away - but he couldn't even offer her a smile to comfort, let alone a whole grand of speech.

Jesus, he's pathetic.

So, he continues to mourn right after third period for her - because really, that's all he could do.

(the candies)

She has a strange eating habit, but she has the strangest addiction for the most sweetest things. Sometimes, over lunch, he amuses himself just watching her preparing herself lunch. The amount of sugar makes his stomach drop (crazy!) but seriously? Only Allison can pull that stunt off brilliantly and indifferently. She's just awesome like that.

But he really thinks that isn't healthy.

He makes it a point to talk about it someday - maybe give an idea to a scientist (Brian) to invent some kind of food that is both very, very sweet and healthy. He shrugs, sighs and stabs his salads.

Maybe.

(the bracelet)

He thinks that's about the most silliest thing he could be noticing last about her. Sure, he notices the way her hair's pulled up in a head band that day, and the way she's wearing a clean white sleeveless shirt with ripped blue jeans and boots - but his focus strangely lands only on the thing that wraps around her slender, pale wrist. It's blue and appeared self-made, the bracelet. It shines and glimmers in his sight, making other scenes look wary - making her eyes look hazy.

And it burns.

When she gets into the car, her hands on the door - the bracelet shifts lower. She turns her head over to him; face clean and eyes glassy, but there's a ghost of a smile on her face. A sad one. His squared shoulders drop, the pain that surrounds his chest spreads. His heart, especially, aches greatly. He tries holding himself together, bucking her knees, planting his soles onto the earth. He refuse to succumb to the ground, even though the weight he's feeling nearly betray him. His eyes aren't shy to meet hers:_ Don't go_.

He's standing there among the shadow of the group (remember Breakfast Club?), watching as the Reynolds get ready to move away (hey, doesn't Chicago just looks incredible this year?) and he's still trying to grasp on this information carefully. Why does it have to be her?

Even his father's constant mental abuse doesn't hurt as much.

The smile she gives as a respond (an even sadder one - but slightly bigger) makes his insides shatter. He tries not to flinch at the pain, but he thinks Brian notices. Bender looks tired, came all the way from his community college to bid one last goodbye. Claire leans into him sadly. He doesn't move away. _Please don't go_.

She waves her hand like a meek little girl and Brian and Claire wave, Bender nods, he stands. Some of her parents' friends wave.

This hurts too much.

The bracelet keeps on moving as she moves her hand from behind the closed car door until the even sight of the car disappears. People sniffs and scatters. He stands. He thinks he's still waiting. He thinks she understands.

_Don't go_.

_But I have to_.

(everything)

It begins with the eyeliner - she's still wearing that. She looks older now, taller perhaps. Standing outside that small Chinese stall at New York streets ten years since he last saw her. Her hands are reaching out to pay the old Chinese woman some money, her lips gracing in a big smile. Thank you, she tells. A group of people passes him, but he stands there, blinking three times. His eyes taking in the sight that is her, the older version; hair's a little longer, she dresses a little cleaner. He thinks he sees stardust covering her.

She turns, detects somebody's looking at her and lifts her chin up (just like in those classes) and meets his eyes.

Instead this time, they just don't look. He realizes he's not in high school. He might be a star-athlete playing for a very well known winning football team, but he doesn't live under Daddy's orders no more. And so he does the thing he's been stupidly ignore before, he smiles. Wide and proud and beaming, and for her.

And Allison? Well, she lifts her hand up, the same bracelet hovering her wrist, and waves - her smile resembles magic.

He walks over to her.

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**_Fin_**.


End file.
